


In More Ways Than One

by paradiamond



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:58:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard and Thranduil meet up in the tent after the battle for a long overdue discussion. Unfortunately for him, Bard cannot help but be distracted. Their relationship only gets more complicated as time goes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

So many have died. 

In the aftermath of the hectic battle Bard weaves his way through the throngs of people, some cheering with joy, others openly weeping in the streets. He offers whatever he can, smiles, kind words, light touches. His people have been through so much in so little time. He tries to offer his strength but it doesn’t seem to be enough, perhaps because he is not feeling very strong. He looks out at the battlefield and can see a mix of elves, men, and dwarves are picking through the field, finishing off orcs and searching for survivors. Bard doesn’t see Thranduil, hasn’t seen him in hours. 

It feels strange to worry for one when so many are suffering all around him, people who now call him King and look to him for guidance, but he has come to see the elf King as a friend, though perhaps that is mearly the wishful thinking of an isolated man. For all he knows the elven King just needed the support of the leader of men for the battle and nothing more. 

His musings are soon interrupted. “King Bard?” a voice calls out to him, unsure in tone. He turns to see a boy dressed up as a soldier and straightens his shoulders. 

“Yes?” 

“Lord Gandalf has asked to see you.” 

Bard nods, not bothering to correct the boy’s error. Gandalf is Lord of nothing, which is part of what makes him so powerful and such a dangerous potential enemy. “Thank you, I will be right there.” 

He spares one last glance for the battlefield, strewn with bodies that need to be dealt with under the face of the now kingless mountain. Funerals must be arranged, lodgings fortified against the coming winter, food secured. So much work that needs doing. Bard pulls himself away, focusing himself on the task at hand and nothing else to clear his mind, a strategy he had perfected after his wife died and he suddenly had to raise, protect, and provide for all three of his young children at once and utterly alone. This is not so hard as that. 

The central tent still stands, or is standing again, he is not sure which. It has been hours since the battle ended and everything has been moving so quickly. Two elven guards stand at the entrance and Bard’s heart leaps to his throat in spite of himself. When he enters, Thranduil does not look up. 

Bard looks away from him as well, mindful of his duty now that he sees Thranduil alive. Gandalf is nowhere to be found. “I heard that Gandalf was looking for me.” 

“He was,” Thranduil says, still writing quickly on a piece of parchment, a runner standing at his back. “But he wandered off ten minutes ago.” 

Bard frowns in spite of his desire to remain kingly. “I suppose there is a reason he is called the Grey Pilgrim,” he says, sourly. There is a water jug sitting on the table, and he notices for the first time how thirsty he is. 

Thranduil smiles now, applying his signature to the bottom of the page with quick, efficient movements before finally looking up. He is beautiful and regal as ever somehow despite being rather dirty and battle worn, but Bard sees that his eyes are tired. “I did warn you about wizards.” 

Bards nods, drinking deeply from the cup he had poured for himself from the water jug. The water is clean and pure, and soothes his parched throat. He notices Thranduil smirking at him, mirth clearly evident in his eyes, and lowers it, trying not to look guilty. “I apologize, is this yours?” 

“Yes,” Thranduil says, looking thoroughly amused. “But you may have it. You should make sure to keep to your full strength, for the people will look to you to be theirs.” 

Bard nods, looking the other King up and down. He doesn’t let his gaze linger too long on any part of him however. “And you as well. I take it that you were not injured?” 

Thranduil’s mouth twitches. “No I was not. I am difficult to touch in battle.” 

_And in peace as well no doubt,_ Bard thinks, raising the cup to his mouth again to cover for his silence. Thranduil continues to watch him as though he is doing something very interesting, and it sends a shiver up his spine. He lowers the cup but does not put it down so he has something to do with his hands. “What of your son?”

Thranduil does not move at all for several tense seconds, not even his eyes. Bard cannot even perceive if he is breathing and for a horrible moment he believes the King’s son to be dead, but then Thranduil speaks. “He is unharmed as well.” His voice sounds tense. 

Relief spreads through him and he sets the cup on the table. “I am glad,” Bard says honestly, wanting to turn away from his gaze but knowing that he cannot, it would be a show of weakness and Thranduil misses nothing. “We have been blessed. My children have survived as well.” 

“That is fortunate,” Thranduil says, thankfully sounding more like his usual haughty self again. “The people will find them inspirational.” 

Bard nods, frowning again. Even after the battle, which has brought them close, King Thranduil is a mystery to him. Of course Bard has heard the talk working so close to the elven King’s domain. They say he has the dragon sickness. That he is a two dimensional figure that sits in his halls still and smug like the dragon that haunted them until so very recently. Surrounded by his hoard, content in his acquisition. With dominion. They say that he lost his wife and so now tries to fill the space she left with chests of gold and gems swindled from less fortunate previous owners. As if he ever could.

Bard is sure he knows enough of grief to know that had he been able he would have done so long ago.

Despite that image and the things that _they_ say, here is the ruler himself, a living being. Bard finds him...different. Beautiful and cold of course, but warming over in parts nonetheless. And still staring at him. 

“You seem lost,” Thranduil says, stepping closer to him, putting himself into Bard’s personal space, surprising him yet again. He is closer than most people tend to get to him now that he is a King. With the way he looks Bard always expects him to smell like the forest, or flowers, but he smells like the battle. 

“Do I?” Bard raises an eyebrow, trying not to show anything on his face, as that seems to be the way Thranduil does it. “I am not. There is much to be done, and nothing to do but to do it. I know that.” 

Thranduil’s expression softens around the eyes. “The battle is won, now you must rule.” Bard can’t help but notice that he has not yet backed away, and he can feel his warmth. As it turns out, elves are not cold beings, though they may seem that way. He is noticing that there is much about the elven King that is not as it seems.

Bard tilts his head, bringing himself only that much closer, but he does not touch. “These people haven’t had a proper ruler in decades.” 

Thranduil blinks and leans away slightly. “Of course not, they are in dire need of it. You will need help, and I will be there to help you,” he says, as though this is obvious, sparking an unexpected tender burst of emotion in Bard which he tries to smother. 

The last he needs is to be distracted by a pretty face and lose his independence as a ruler, if that is indeed what he must be. Thranduil is like all beautiful things, compelling and seductive. He thinks about the past few days and remembers side-eyed glances shared, wine poured for him, water given. Thranduil has been friendly, nice even, the entire time. Bard doubts he does anything without a reason. 

Thranduil tilts his head, circlet glinting in the light. “To rule is to give yourself entirely to your country. It is difficult, you need allies you can trust.” Thranduil reaches down between then, ever so slowly and picks up the water cup, the same one Bard had drank from. He raises it to his lips, and Bard looks away. 

“Like you?”

“Yes,” Thranduil says, eyes sparkling. 

“Perhaps you will be my mentor more than my ally then?” Bard asks sarcastically, growing weary of the games. Of everything. 

“Perhaps. You seem…” Thranduil trails off as though he expects Bard to finish the sentence for him. “Doubt filled. Still.” He licks his lips, collecting a stray drop of water. 

_Enough._ Bard reaches out and takes the cup straight from Thranduil’s hand, prompting his eyebrows to shoot up. “I grow concerned.”

Thranduil’s expression doesn’t change but his eyes dance with light. “Of what?”

“You,” Bard takes a sip and sees Thranduil track the movement. “You and your manipulations.” 

Thranduil stares at him in silence for a long moment before letting a smile to spread across his face. “Good.” 

Bard blinks, lowering the cup. “What?” 

“When you are aware of the game you can finally play.” Thranduil takes another full step, bringing him even closer to Bard, too close now. All Bard can see is his flawless skin, his bright eyes. It makes him dizzy. 

Bard refuses to lean away. “I would prefer that we dispense with games altogether.” 

To his annoyance, Thranduil tilts his head and laughs, and it’s just as enchanting as the rest of him. “Do not be such a dwarf about this my friend,” he says, reaching up to clasp Bard’s shoulder with a deceptively light touch. “I do not mean to offend, only to help. You will never avoid the game, not now that you are a King, and it is best you learn with an experienced player.” Thranduil smirks, skimming his fingertips along the seam of Bard’s shirt. 

Bard moves to brush him off but Thranduil has released him and taken half a step back by the time he raises his hand. He sets the cup down hard on the table, causing some of the water to spill out. “So long as it does not put my rule or my people in jeopardy. I will not be toyed with.” 

Thranduil leans away, tilting his head back to inspect Bard with narrowed eyes. “No. I do not believe you will.” 

Some of the tension between them fades, and Bard lets out a slow breath he had not been aware he’d been holding. “Good.” Bard squares his shoulders. The corner of Thranduil’s mouth twitches but Bard lets it go. “Now, I must go track down a wayward wizard.” 

The twitch develops into a full smile that transforms the other King’s face. “How bothersome.”

Bard rolls his eyes. “Like storms they are, or so I have been told.” He takes a step back and bows his head, prompting Thranduil to do the same, albeit significantly more gracefully. “If you will excuse me.” 

Thranduil’s eyes flicker to the tent entrance, making it easier for Bard to focus. “Of course, I also have duties to attend to as well.” 

“Of course,” Bard says, turning away, already thinking of his next task. They need to sure up the defenses in case of another attack. There could always be another. If the wizard truly needs him he will find him, Bard must attend to his people. 

“Oh, and Bard?” 

Bard turns back to find that Thranduil has snuck up on him, closer than ever, and he curses himself for turning his back to a predator. _You know better than that._ Bard takes a breath, but Thranduil doesn’t give him a chance to respond, leaning in before Bard can even think to move so he can press a kiss so light to Bard’s lips he can barely feel it. 

He leans away with a triumphant expression, having successfully stolen Bard’s breath. 

“Perhaps I will be your mentor, in more ways than one.”


	2. Chapter 2

The palace of the Elvenking is vast and elegant. Every stairway, arch, and stretch of floor has the same natural aesthetic but it is clear that each aspect was carefully planned. If it seems strange at first that elves would willingly live underground, one soon forgets that particular detail. The rooms are well lit, either by fire or by sun through some hidden trick, and it is almost impossible to feel the weight of the rock bearing down, so open and airy are the spaces. 

Everything about Thranduil’s dwelling is almost annoyingly impressive in Bard’s opinion, and entirely too much like the king himself. 

“Welcome, King Bard of Dale,” Thranduil says from his high carved throne, and Bard dips his head while his entourage and family bows lower. He looks up and Thranduil nods at him, looking the same as ever in his robes of silver and red, though Bard had not seen him since they concluded negotiations after the battle of five armies. 

Bard also sees a larger contingent of well dressed and unblinking elves crowding the surrounding platforms and balconies, watching his every move. 

“Thank you, King Thranduil, not just for the warm welcome but for everything you have done my people in these past few months.” He raises a hand, prompting Bain to come forward with a carved box. Thranduil sits forward slightly and Bard forces down a smile, amused in spite of himself. 

“There can be no gift greater than the life saving aid you gave to us when we were so in need, but I hope this small token can begin to demonstrate the gratitude we all feel.” Bard takes the box from his son and holds it out to an elven guard, who in turns climbs the steps of the throne and opens it for Thranduil. 

Thranduil smiles without showing his teeth, and looks back up to Bard, the light in his eyes dancing. “What a truly beautiful gift, King Bard, and much appreciated.” He dips his hand into the box and lifts out the necklace of Girion, emeralds glittering in the light. The murmuring from the onlookers increases as he holds it up to the light to be better admired. 

“It is an heirloom of my family, of my people, many of whom should not be here today if it were not for you. It is right that you should have it.” 

“Indeed. A most worthy gift, and I accept it wholeheartedly.” Thranduil deposits it gently back in its fur-lined box, shutting the lid and sitting back against his throne once more. “I hope that it can be a signifier of the renewal of a respectful and mutually beneficial relationship between our two kingdoms.” He places his hand on his chest and then sweeps it forward in an elven salute, prompting scattered applause from both the men and the elves. 

Bard resists the urge to rolls his eyes. _How heavy handed._ Though Girion’s necklace, once traded to the dwarves in exchange for a coat of mithril armor, was just as much so. Thranduil smiles at him. _But how like him._

From there they are escorted to their chambers for the duration of the festivities in honor of the official working trust between Erebor, Dale, and Mirkwood (though Thranduil’s envoys had insisted on referring to it as Eryn Lasgalen in all official documents). Though not present for the negotiations himself, Thranduil insists on signing all treaties himself, requiring Bard to leave Dale for the Elvenking’s halls in order to have Thranduil sign a paper full of information that he had already agreed to. If the document didn’t contain many trade agreements too valuable to his people to risk, Bard might have sent a counselor to parade himself in front of the elves instead. 

The rooms he had been given are beautiful, but not so opulent that they make him uncomfortable. Perfect again. As he dresses himself for the ceremony and feast, Bard tries to quell his confused feelings and focus on being the King of Dale. It is not lost on him that Thranduil will try to continue the games they played back on the battlefield, and that if Bard wants to win he had best start by looking the part. 

His robes are stately, and intentionally masculine. He had them adapted by a competent seamstress from some of the clothes the Master left behind when he fled, paying her with the excess fabric, and they turned out nicely. Normally Bard would bother, but his life is far from normal now, and he needs formal dress. The color blue is so dark it is more a shimmering black. Though he usually forgoes it all together, tonight he wears his crown, a thin but solid iron band with six short points that rest in his hair, made by his own people. It is new, there was no crown passed down from Girion or any other king of Dale, and Bard finds it a fitting representation for his rule. 

There is a knock on the door, and in pour his three children, all dressed and very excited. Bard bent down to pick Tilda up, swinging her in his arms. “Well don’t you look like a proper princess today.” She laughs and excitedly holds up her wrist. 

“Look Da, the king gave us presents!” 

Bards does look, and has to stop himself from laughing out loud. It seems that Bard wasn’t the only one throwing expensive jewelry around today. “So I can see,” he says, turning her wrist so the tiny diamonds in the bracelet can catch the light. Sigrid is also sporting a necklace with a ruby the size of an egg, and Bain has a new ring. “These are kingly gifts. Make sure that you thank him properly tonight. All of you.” 

“We will!”

Bard arrives to the great room first, eight men behind him. His family follows in behind their contingent with several other councillors. Thranduil shows up twenty minutes later, descending the great staircase in at the back on the room at what seems to be around four steps per minute. He is dressed all in silver and wearing the necklace of Giron, the green standing out boldly against his neck. Bard raises an eyebrow at the display, but Thranduil pretends not to see it. 

The treaty signing only takes about ten minutes, nine of which is comprised of Thranduil talking, and then the feast begins. Bard finds himself sitting next to Thranduil on a raised platform, the rest of the party going on beneath them. 

Bard turns to him, raising his glass. “Shall we toast to peace?”

Thranduil smirks. “If you will. May we also toast to Dale handling the negotiations with the dwarves for the rest of time? I don’t think I have ever enjoyed them so much.” 

Bard nods, amused, and they drink. He sets his glass down, and they are served by two beautiful elves. The food is perfect, as is the wine. Bard can’t even bring himself to be annoyed by it, so wonderful is the meal. 

He allows himself a few minutes to eat before turning back to his host. “I thank you for the gifts you gave my children.” 

Thranduil inclines his head. “As did they. I hope they are to their liking.” 

“Oh they are.” Bard chuckles, taking a sip of wine. “I do not believe that Tilda will ever take hers off.” 

“Good. Children should be happy.” 

“So should kings,” Bard says, nodding to the necklace. “I am glad you seem to like it.” 

Thranduil raises a hand to trail his fingers along his long neck, drawing Bard’s eye. “I do. When did you get it back?” 

“Last month, when we finalized the negotiations with the dwarves. It came as part of the hobbit Bilbo Baggins’ 14th share in exchange for the Arkenstone. Dain gave it to me himself.” 

“And you immediately thought of me?” Thranduil asks, showing his teeth. “How sweet.” 

He’s baiting Bard, trying to make him uncomfortable, just like he did back in the tent. Just like he always does. But this time Bard came prepared. 

“Of course I did.” He looks Thranduil up and down, gaze verging on a leer, but he keeps his voice low enough for privacy. “They are incredible on you, not that you need gems to be stunning.” 

Thranduil blinks, one long, slow blink, as though to stall for time. Bard goes back to his food. 

He takes the opportunity to check that his children are behaving themselves at the other table, which they are, and to see if his people are mingling well with the other elves, which they do not seem to be. Though they are mixed in fairly well with the elves, Bard sees at least three of his councilors attempting to speak to each other over elves, and at least two more speaking to no one at all. Not that the elves seems to be trying any harder to make friends. The atmosphere is awkward, to say the least. 

“How are you finding my realm?” Thranduil asks, finally breaking the silence. 

Bard nods. “I am enjoying it very much, at first it reminded me of Erebor.” Thranduil’s eyes narrow. “But that was just my initial impression. Your realm is much lighter, the rooms more open, and there is air to breathe. I am very fond of it, especially the hospitality.” 

Thranduil’s eyes dance with amusement. “Are you going to flirt with me for the entire evening then? I am asking you a serious question.” 

Bard raises his eyebrows in mock offense. “Is that not the proper way to engage in diplomacy? I apologize, I am only a new king, but a mentor of mine showed me otherwise some months ago,” he says, perhaps more sharply than he intended. 

Thranduil frowns, beginning to look truly offended, so Bard backtracks. “However I did give you a serious answer, the hospitality of your halls has been excellent. We have wanted for nothing since we have arrived. I am not sure I will ever convince my people to leave.” 

“Good.” The frown disappears. “But why then does it seem like you truly do not wish to be here?” 

Bard hesitates, then opts for the truth. “I am loath to leave my people so soon after the disaster, even for a few days. We have just now reached a point of stability that satisfies me, and now I am away from them.” 

“It is for that reason that now is the best time to leave, when things are going well.” 

It is Bard’s turn to frown. “I do not understand.” 

Thranduil sets his hand on the stem of his glass, looking out over the great hall. “A king’s position is always precarious, no matter how secure things may seem, and especially for a new king such as yourself.” He smiles briefly. “It is wise to see how the mice will play when the cat is away in a time of relative security, then you can fix any holes they might make easily, and prevent them from coming back.” 

Bard nods. “That makes sense.” 

“Of course it does,” Thranduil says, taking a drink from his wine. “I said it.” 

They both laugh together, and Bard feels relaxed for the first time since entering the forest. “I am sorry for teasing you earlier. I felt the need for some silly revenge between friends.” 

“It is nothing.” Thranduil waves him off. “I am glad to hear you call us friends, I had worried after our last conversation that you might not wish to be.” 

“I think you know that I wish to be, and you know that’s why I had my concerns.” 

“Had?”

Bard tilts his head, imitating the other king, and Thranduil throws his head back in laughter. 

The feast goes on for several more hours, the elves never tiring, the music unending. Bard’s people seem to enjoy themselves more as the evening goes on, and none of them get too drunk, having been warned about elvish wines. Bard finds himself proud, and happy, when the elven king stands to excuse himself, bidding goodnight to his people and giving a more personal farewell to Bard. 

“I am off.” Bard stands as well, giving him a perfected elvish salute which makes Thranduil smile. “Will you join me in my chambers for a drink?” 

Bard doesn’t allow himself to hesitate, but his heart rate picks up. “Of course. Allow me to say goodnight to me children-”

Thranduil waves a hand. “I will not tear you away. Stay, have your fun, enjoy the peace and join me whenever you will.” Bard bows his head graciously, and Thranduil takes his leave. 

Deciding to make the best of the rest of his evening just as Thranduil suggested, Bard takes heads to the floor to find his children and mingle with his people. The music is more lively now that the food has been cleared away and the tables moved to make space for dancing, and the people more lively in turn. 

“Hail King Bard!” A group of his men raise their glasses as he passes by and he nods at them, amused. One of his councillors break away from the group and come up to him bowing his head briefly. “My King, is there anything-”

“No Merrick, enjoy the rest of your evening,” Bard says, smiling. He takes his leave of his men, satisfied with their behavior and pleased that they can enjoy themselves after so much hardship. He heads towards the back of the room. There don’t seem to be very many children at the feast, or at all in fact, which makes finding his own fairly simple. 

He finds the girls sitting with Tauriel and some other elves, both male and female, by some large potted plants. They are talking animatedly, Tilda having her hair brushed and braided by a dark haired elven maiden while two others see to Sigrid’s. They look absolutely delighted, and so carefree Bard is loath to tear them away. 

“Girls?” 

They look up. “Father!” Tilda cries, smiling. The elves all giggle and the dark haired one strokes her hair.

“King Bard,” she says, her voice high and musical. She wraps a thin arm around Tilda’s shoulders, smiling beatifically. “I hope you aren’t here to take these darlings away from us.” 

Sigrid laughs. “Oh please father let us stay.” The elves all agree, speaking all at once. 

Bard glances at Tauriel, who shrugs. “They are excited, we don’t see many children, and especially not human children.” 

“Excited or not human children need their sleep.” 

Sigrid leans over to whisper something in Tauriel’s ear and she smiles. “What about one more hour? I will take responsibility for them,” she implores, turning on her elven charm. Both of his daughters smile at her. Bard notices several of the other elves look rather put out. 

Bard looks at his daughters, both of whom are now staring up at him with wide eyes. “Very well, will you take Bain as well when I find him?” Tauriel nods, looking pleased. 

The children and some of the elves cheer, and Bard goes off to find Bain, who he sees in another corner standing on a chair and telling some elven warriors about the slaying of Smaug. “-and then it broke, so he put the black arrow on my shoulder-”

“No!” One of the elves says, leaning forward. “Truly?”

“Yes,” Bain says, putting his hands on his hips. “Pay attention.” 

Bard can’t help but laugh, drawing their attention. “Having fun son?” 

Bain spins on the chair, nearly overbalancing himself. He grins guiltily. “Yes, father.” 

Bard waves his hand. “It’s alright, it’s as much your story as it is mine. I was just coming to tell you that Tauriel will be taking charge of you in an hour, and you are to stay in your room once she brings you there.” 

“Yes, father,” Bain says, turning back around to face the elves again, and Bard leaves, shaking his head. He heads for the main doors and sees himself out, grateful that there are no more speeches expected from him tonight, and makes his way down the halls, looking for the Elvenking’s chambers. 

“King Bard?” someone calls to him, and he turns to see an elf dressed in armor standing by the entrance to a hallway. 

_That didn’t take long,_ Bard thinks, nodding to the elf. 

“King Thranduil is expecting you, his chambers are straight through here.” 

“Thank you,” Bard says, proceeding down the curved hallway. He straightens his back as he walks, and adjusts his crown, trying to convince himself not to be nervous with limited success. When he reaches the door, he knocks straight away, not wanting him to hear that Bard had hesitated. 

“Yes?” Thranduil calls, sounding the same as ever, like dark water flowing over the rocks.

Bard lets out a breath. “It’s me.” 

“Ah. Come in.” 

Bard rolls his eyes and opens the door for himself, letting himself into the private chambers of King Thranduil, though he barely notices them in light of the king himself, who is standing with his hair unbound, wearing nothing but a light white robe, open to the center of his chest, bound by a single thin sash, and the necklace of Girion. 

Bard freezes, mind black and uncharacteristically speechless, and Thranduil smiles, settling himself down on a chair. “Forgive me, I did not expect you so soon.” 

Bard drags his gaze up from where the necklace meets the white skin of Thranduil’s collarbones. “I- my children were quite entertained without me.” His mouth is so dry. “I left them in Tauriel’s care. Your people seemed very taken with them.” 

Thranduil nods. “We do not have many children, they are precious to us.” 

“So I gathered.” 

Thranduil nods to the other chair. “Care to sit?”

“Oh, of course.” Bard sits, feeling unaccountably foolish. This is not how he intended the evening to go, though really he should not be so surprised that Thranduil would use such tricks. Once he is settled, Thranduil reaches over to pour them both some wine, handing Bard his without brushing his fingers, and then leans back to study him. Bard allows it, taking the opportunity to look around the room, and away from Thranduil so he can clear his head. 

“You seem to be adjusting well,” Thranduil finally says. “I knew you would.” 

Bard smirks, letting himself relax. It works as long as he keeps his eyes up. “Really now?” 

“Oh yes. Do you think I waste my time with people who do not have great potential?” 

“I seriously doubt it,” Bard says, easily falling back into their game. 

Thranduil is still looking him over. “The crown is a nice touch.” 

Bard tilts his head. “I did not think you would like it.”

“I don’t, but it suits you very well.” He reaches up to trail his fingers over the necklace, Bard can almost feel how lightly. “Just as this suits me.” 

“That it does,” Bard says, because he can’t help it. 

His smile turns predatory. “Is it really five hundred emeralds?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t counted them.” 

Thranduil laughs lightly, the sound enchanting. “Perhaps I will.” He sweeps his hair over his right shoulder with one fluid movement. “Will you get the clasp for me? I don’t feel like dealing with any servants at the moment, and I won’t risk damaging it.” 

Bard gives him a hard look but gets up anyway, taking his time with it. He comes up behind the other king and undoes the clasp with quick, impersonal movement. “You must trust me to let me put my hands so near your neck. What if I was scheming something?” 

Thranduil lets Bard slide the necklace off him, putting his hair back the way it was. “You would not do anything to me.” 

“Why not?” Bard calls over his shoulder, heading for the table the seems the likeliest, but he does not see the box. “Maybe that has been my plan all along.” 

“Because you love your children,” Thranduil says simply, and Bard stares at him, holding the necklace limply in his hands. The silence between them stretches tensely for a moment before Bard consciously lets it go. 

“I do not see the box for this,” he says, holding the necklace up. 

“It’s the silver one, with the green accents.” 

Bard scoffs, amused. “You got a new box? Already?”

Thranduil looks up, expression earnest. “Don’t be offended. A treasure like that does not belong in a wooden box.” 

Bard rolls his eyes, not caring if Thranduil sees. “I would not think that it mattered so much,” he says, depositing the necklace gently in the nicer, velvet lined box. 

“Leave the lid open,” Thranduil says, moving to stand next to him, eyes on the jewels. 

Bard looks him him looking, greatly amused. “I find myself increasingly glad that I gave this to you. It is far better off in the hands of someone who appreciates it more than I ever could.”

Thranduil seems amused by Bard in turn. “You should try to learn to appreciate beauty. Life is too long to harden yourself against the wonderful things this world has to offer.” 

Bard blinks, caught off guard.

Thranduil leans away. “What?”

“We say life is too short,” Bard says, grinning. 

They both laugh, Bard putting his hand on the table for support, the gems of Girion between them. Finally Thranduil regains himself and lays a hand on Bard’s face, fingers climbing upwards to brush the edge of his crown. Bard holds his breath. 

“No more games tonight,” Thranduil murmurs, slipping the crown off his head with quick fingers and laying it gently next to the silver box. 

“That sounds like something a skilled player would say,” Bard says, though he makes sure the Elvenking sees his smile. 

Thranduil smiles back, placing a hand on the table as well and leaning forward slowly, as though giving Bard time to back away. Bard takes a step forward instead, placing one hand on Thranduil’s waist and the other on the back of his head to bring their mouths together, much more firmly than the last time. 

Thranduil draws him in, deftly maneuvering away from Bard when he tries to press deeper, running one hand up Bard’s back and holding him against him. When Bard takes a breath, Thranduil runs his tongue along his bottom lip, making him gasp, mouth open. Thranduil presses harder, invading his mouth. Bard responds in kind, and he knows just when to pull away, to simply brush his lips against his jaw and breathe. Thranduil shivers. 

“You are a fast learner, my king.”


	3. Chapter 3

Bard turns his face to the rising sun, feeling the beginnings of its rays on his skin. Contentment the likes of which he had not known in many years sings through him today. One year to the day after the attack of Lake-town by the dragon and the full rebuilding of Dale is finally ready to be called complete. Dale Renewed, that’s what the people call it. Of course the city had been habitable for far longer than that, but today is the day that Bard is finally prepared to be satisfied. As he walks through the streets towards the center square, Bard takes the opportunity to admire the city and its people, strong and proud. 

The people follow behind him as he walks, making their way together to the square where his children and the dwarven envoys all wait, his son holding a hammer much too large for his small frame with a look of hard-eyed determination that makes Bard smile. Next to him, King Dain stands in his stately dress, all gemstones and gold thread, with his hands firmly clasped in front of him. As Bard approaches, the dwarven king nods to him once, and Bard cannot help but stand a little straighter. 

He hides a smile, thinking of what a certain elf might say about Bard’s reaction to their dwarven counterpart. 

“Hail King Bard!” a herald cries and Bard does is best to smile. At least he no longer cringes at the sound of the title. That was not very regal of him. 

Bard comes to stand between his son and Dain, accepting the heavy hammer before turning to face the gathered people. “People of Dale!” he says loudly, and has to pause to allow for their cheering. “And people of Laketown!” Less cheering this time, for though Bard had extended the invitation to any Laketown resident not that many had come. There is still some tension between the two groups, but he is confident that it will fade in time. 

“We are gathered here today on the anniversary of the death of the dread beast Smaug-” Again, more cheering. “-to celebrate our victory and to commemorate our dead.” 

He raises the hammer that was made for him by the dwarves of Erebor, poised to strike the post that will dig into the ground, making space for the sign that was made for him by the elves of Mirkwood and that will sit and tell of anyones that passes by the history of their city that was made by his people themselves. The final touch. 

“Long live the free peoples of Middle Earth! Long live Dale!” Bard cries and brings the hammer down, the people returning his words with excitement. It smashes into the post and drives it downward a few inches into the hard ground, not enough to finish the job but the point was largely a symbolic one. As he passes the hammer to Dain for the second strike, Bain leans over to him and whispers.

“Da, where are the elves?”

Bard leans back, wrapping an arm around Bain’s shoulder as the people cheer at seeing how far Dain drives the post down. “I don’t know son,” he says, because it is the truth. Then he has to step forward and pronounce the beginning of the first annual Dragon Festival, a new holiday that they will celebrate in honor of both the dead and the survivors, showing their resilience and bravery in the face death. They will turn the dragon into a party favor, a relic of the past. They will move on. 

Bard gestures to his advisors as the dwarves depart to the great hall to be settled into their rooms. Much to Bard’s amusement, they had not wanted to take part in the first part of the festivities. Dwarven dignity is not to be trifled with. 

“For anyone who wishes to join my family and I, we will be breaking our fast here in the courtyard without adornments or even chairs, as we did many times in the days following the attack.” He sees several people in the crowd nodding, faces both familiar and new to him. “I wish to revisit that time now in humble reflection out of respect for the dead. We shall not forget what we have lived through, and we shall not forget those that did not live to remember it with us.” Bard bows his head briefly in silence before sitting down on the ground, his children moving to sit beside him. 

Some people are openly crying now as they move to sit on the ground amongst their fellow citizens, common and royal alike. Servants and volunteers move throughout the crowd, distributing the simple fare Bard had requested before sitting down themselves. The cold of the stone seeping through his robes, Bard allows himself his own personal moment of reflection as he eats the plain bread and cheese, which is admittedly better than much of what they had in those early days. He reminds himself that he is lucky to be alive, that his children might have died, that their allies might have turned their backs. 

Silence reigns supreme in those moments, broken only by the winds and the soft sounds of people eating, though many have declined to do even that. His people make good use of the time, and Bard resolves to do the same. Bard lets his eyes drift shut, letting himself feel all of it, all the weight and responsibility and gratitude. 

When he opens his eyes, Thranduil is there. 

Bard blinks, but does not move to get up, allowing a councillor to discreetly explain the ritual to the King, who listens with his ever inscrutable expression. He is as he always will be, dressed in a green and white tunic with his crown of silver. He is beautiful, cold and distant like the stars. 

To his surprise, Thranduil dismounts from his horse at once and lowers himself gracefully to the ground, looking comically out of place in the midst of Bard’s people. The majority of his elves hurry to do the same, though some of them leave, taking the horses with them. Bard meets Thranduil's eyes from across the courtyard and nods, feeling a rush of warmth and gratitude at the simple gesture. Food is given to those that want it, and they resume their solemn meal. 

The low murmurs of conversation begin naturally, gradually rising to an audible, but still respectful level. Bard mainly contents himself with listening. Many of the people are speaking of the aftermath of the attack, or of the battle, or of the hard winter that came soon after. They look relieved, and soon Bard finds himself speaking as well, sometimes to councillors, sometimes to servants. Soon it is as if they are simply sharing a meal that happens to be taking place outside, the mood taking a turn for the positive. Bard smiles at his children, the feeling coming easily and turns his head at the sudden commotion at the entrance of the great hall. 

Several of the dwarves are coming out, all talking more softly than they usually do but still much more loudly than most of the men in attendance. “Yes," Dain says gruffly to one of Bard’s advisors, casting a glare in the direction of the elves. “Of course we are coming. We had business to attend to and now we are finished.” 

The advisor casts a helpless look in Bard’s direction but he waves the dwarves over, biting the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. He can actually feel Thranduil’s gaze on his face and resolutely does not turn to look at him. If he does he knows he will be doomed. Dain marches right up to his previous position at Bard’s right side, settling himself on the ground with a huff. 

“King Dain, thank you for joining us,” Bard says respectfully. 

“Of course,” Dain says, still sounding less than pleased. “An excellent idea, we are happy to participate.” Bard nods, willing to bet the words came straight from the mouth of his exceedingly diplomatic advisor, Balin. 

“I thought that you said the exercise was not kingly?” Bard asks, because he cannot resist, and sees Balin turn his head away in amusement. 

Dain straightens his shoulders, reaching up to accept the bread and cheese. “Well I am a king and I am doing it, so it must be.” 

Bard nods and allows himself a glance in the other King’s direction. Thranduil is still looking at him, amusement clearly evident in his face. He raises his hunk of cheese in Bard’s direction like a toast and Bard rolls his eyes, raising his piece of bread in return. 

“Cheeky elf,” he mutters, charmed in spite of himself once again, and much to his amusement hears Dain grunt in agreement. 

The meal ends soon after, the people retiring to their homes and work in fair spirits, but not before Thranduil makes a show of his own strike to the post, his body working in what seems to be one fluid motion that captures the eye. Used to his particular and distracting form of grace by now, Bard ignores his glances and announces the next part of the festival which will start later in the day and involve significantly more music and food worthy of a traditional celebration. His advisors attack the preparations with a determination that Bard can have faith in as he welcomes the visiting dignitaries into the great hall.

The great hall, which at the moment is full to the brim with elves, dwarves, and men of status, lies at the center of town and is the hub of Bard’s government. Formerly the ruined palace of Girion, Bard had it converted to a more communal space that suits the style of his rule better. He had the palace living quarters converted into a multitude of guest quarters. As such he does not live in it, but rather in the admittedly too large estate next door, but his councillors would settles for nothing less. The palace became the great hall which serves Bard’s agenda well. It also has rather extensive kitchens, which is fortunate for these kinds of events which always culminate with a feast. 

“Welcome lords and ladies of Greenwood, Erebor, and Esgaroth,” Bard says, nodding to the most important members of each group. When he meets Thranduil's eyes he feels a chill run up the length of his spine and he has to look away quickly. He has not seen Thranduil since the treaty signing in his realm but he has thought of him often, and judging by the looks the other king is giving him, so had he. 

With the pleasantries taken care of Bard is as free as he is going to be for the duration of the festival, which will span three days. He still needs to be available to all of his guests but in a far more general way. Thranduil finds him first. 

“King Bard.” 

“King Thranduil,” Bard responds, making the effort not to look anywhere but his face. “I am very pleased you were able to join us today. I was concerned for your party.” 

This seems to amuse Thranduil, for he glances down, a small smiles gracing his lips. “I see. I assure you we are fine, we merely ran ran afoul of some spiders. A slight delay, nothing more.” 

Bard grins, unable to help it. “I rather think they ran afoul of you.” 

Thranduil laughs, the movement producing the rare sight of lines around his eyes that fade back into perfect smoothness in an instant. “Perhaps.” His eyes flicker to the right of Bard’s shoulder. “Ah. We are joined by our...esteemed dwarven contemporary.” 

The childishly resentful tone makes Bard smile again as he turns to face Dain, who is heading straight for them. Thranduil continues muttering under his breath. “No doubt he fears you will have forgotten him, being so below your sight line.” 

Bard resists the urge to shush him, greeting Dain like an old friend when Dain calls him ‘laddie’. 

“King Dain, how fare the relocation efforts?” Bard inquires, genuinely interested. With all the dwarven caravans coming into the valley from Ered Luin Bard is keenly aware of the coming strain on their food resources. He and Dain discuss it at length, Thranduil is doing his best impression of a statute, which suits Bard just fine. The last thing he wishes for is a fight. 

After some time Thranduil finally moves again, reaching out and laying a hand on Bard’s arm. “That reminds me, I have a gift for you,” he says, even though they had not been talking about gifts. 

“As do I!” Dain barks, clapping his hands. Two dwarves approach, holding an ornate box which Bard accepts graciously. He won’t open it in public, dwarven cultural tradition demands that he wait. Thranduil looks like he swallowed a lemon. 

Bard does his best not to look too surprised or delay his response as he passes the box to an advisor to be brought to his suite. “I- thank you very much King Dain. As always the generosity of the mountain is much appreciated.” 

Dain waves a hand, his attention already wandering again. “It is nothing, merely the continuation of a standing agreement.” 

“Oh course that is all,” Thranduil responds, even though Dain had clearly not been speaking to him. The sun could not hope to melt the ice in his tone. Bard lets his eyes drift shut. They had been doing so well.

Dain’s eyes narrow to slits. “Listen her-”

“My lord Dain!” One of Bard’s advisors suddenly interjects and Bard sends him a look of gratitude. Bard wraps a hand around Thranduil’s arm and tugs him away while his advisor weaves his excuses. 

Thranduil sends him an amused glance that does not quite cover for his bad mood. “Is this entirely necessary?” 

“Considering that I greatly prefer not to have any wars started in my state house, yes it is.” Thranduil glances up at the ceiling briefly, his version of a full eyeroll and Bard smiles. “Please humor me my friend, this is supposed to be a celebration.” 

“Then why did you invite them?” Thranduil mutters, pulling away from Bard’s grasp to accept a glass of wine from a server, getting one for Bard as well. As he passes it over his fingers brush against Bard’s no doubt completely deliberately. 

“Thank you.” Bard smirks. “I am sorry Dain stole your thunder, you were saying you got me a gift?” 

“Yes,” Thranduil says, sounding bored, his gaze wandering over the room. “It was my turn to bring you a present. I shall give it to you later.” 

Bard’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is it not the sort of thing one gives in public?” 

Thranduil freezes, then slowly turns back to face him. Bard feels an unexpected thrill at having regained his full attention. “Perhaps not. Though I do not believe in the way you are thinking of.” 

“Pity,” Bard says, because he cannot help but tease him. It is so familiar between them, almost comforting. 

This time Thranduil really does roll his eyes. 

As the day progresses and the public festival begins in earnest Bard finds Thranduil rarely out of his sight, and often even within arms reach. It is strange to be with the other king in such an informal context but Bard revels in the opportunity, as well as in the chance to share with him the best his people have to offer, though he doubts Thranduil will be terribly impressed after all these years. Still, it is nice to have him on Bard’s side of things for once. 

The festival is pleasant and fun, if not terribly extravagant. They might be fully recovered but that does not mean they are able to put on a show to the standards of more established kingdoms. Neither the dwarves nor the elves seem to mind however. What the people of Dale lack in sheer resources they make up for in honest craft and enthusiasm. Even Bard finds himself both entertained and impressed as he wanders the streets of his own city. 

“I do not understand the point of this,” Thranduil says, gesturing to the line of people waiting to have their faces painted in red and gold. “Why would you want to take the image of the very thing that terrorized you?” He frowns, looking genuinely confused. 

Bard smiles, finding the expression rare and endearing on his friend. “The dragon is dead. We have no reason to be afraid anymore.” 

“Yes, but surely this is…” Thranduil trails off, still staring at the dragon painted faces. 

“Disrespectful?” Bard asks, nodding to a passing townsperson. 

Thranduil smirks. “I did not say that.” 

“But you wanted to,” Bard says, desiring to elbow him in the ribs but knowing that such childish behavior is best kept behind closed doors. He settles for grinning instead. “Perhaps, but they clearly do not see it that way, and since they were the ones who suffered the most should they not get to decide?” 

“I supposes it shows a certain...audacity.” Thranduil tilts his head, turning coy again. “Will you be participating in this particular ritual, my king?” 

Bard laughs. “No I don’t think so. Though I believe that the dwarves often mark themselves to commemorate a foe or a loss, sometimes even permanently!” 

Thranduil breathes deeply, his eyes flickering briefly upward. “Yes, I have heard the same,” he says, with what Bard takes to be admirable restraint all things considered. It only makes Bard laugh that much harder, feeling lighter and more relaxed than he had in weeks. 

They spend most of the remainder of the festival together with a few exceptions that all involve the dwarves in some way. Bard takes care of these diversions with good humor, letting Thranduil make himself scarce in these cases. In truth, it’s one of the best days Bard has had in long time.

Unfortunately, matters of the state tend not to stay quiet for very long. 

“My Lords, I hope that these humble offerings please you,” Bard says, knowing full well that the feast is not humble in the slightest. When your closest neighbors and allies are an ancient race of near-perfect beings and a proud race with a legendary kingdom, the tendency is to try to impress. It is important that he can show his fellow Kings that he is indeed their equal. The feast is large, to please the dwarves, and the presentation is lovely, to please the elves.

To his immense satisfaction Bard sees the open and eager satisfaction in Dain’s face paired with the placid approval in Thranduil’s. He basks in what he knows will be the one pleasant moment of the next few hours. Through unavoidable political necessity Bard has the unfortunate honor of sitting between Dain and Thranduil at the head of the table. Short of having three separate tables for each race and each with their own prime position, which is not in the spirit of what Bard is trying to do, it was the only available option. 

“Right this way my Lords,” Bard says, with his most diplomatic smile. His face already hurts and they have not even begun. 

Neither of the two stubborn kings speak as he takes the lead to the head of the table, headache already forming. But as soon as they are seated Thranduil begins talking, clearly of the mind that if he has to share the same position as a dwarf, then he is at least going to have the undivided attention of the King. 

“-quite adequate,” Thranduil says, not even pausing to taste the wine he is commenting on. “Though of course Dorwinion is my preferred-” 

“Pah!” Dain slams the table with his fist, making the whole table quake. He had been interjecting on and off for the past twenty minutes, seeming torn between genuinely not caring how Bard occupies his time and not wanting Thranduil to have anything he does not. “Give me a good ale before wine any day. It is how real warriors drink, would you not say dragonslayer?” 

Bard eyes his knife, wondering how extreme a flesh wound would need to be to reasonably excuse him from the table. “I cannot say I prefer one over another.” Dain rolls his eyes and Bard can see Thranduil's knuckles go white on the handle of his own knife in response. “But, I also cannot say that I have had much dwarven ale, so perhaps I am merely undereducated in the subject.” 

Thranduil mutters something under his breath and Bard has to resist the urge to stab him with his fork. He never used to have these problems. Dain leans forward, his eyes gleaming. “We shall have to remedy that soon.” 

Bard inclines his head. “I look forward to it,” he says, laying his free hand on top of Thranduil’s knee under the table, thrilled to feel the elf freeze. _That is what you get._ Bard thinks, too amused with himself to care that he is being childish. 

Dain begins talking about the different dwarven ales, needing no help to keep the words flowing. He barely even looks in Bard’s direction, giving Bard the opportunity to look in Thranduil’s. Unsurprisingly the elven king is not looking at him. He appears to be eating calmly, but glances over when Bard does, his eyes much more serious than Bard had seen them all day, like two deep pools. Bard tears his eyes away, and tries to take his hand back only to find that Thranduil had captured that too without him even noticing. 

Bard exhales sharply, glad to see that no one else seems to have noticed a thing as Thranduil strokes his fingertips lightly over Bard’s, moving them down and across his palm, up to his wrist. Bard shivers in spite of himself, trying not to show these simple touches impact him despite their seemingly innocuous nature. It does not help that his hand is trembling slightly. 

Dain has dropped all pretense of speaking to Bard at all, now turned in his chair towards his wife. Thranduil leans in slightly. “I just remembered, you still have not come to collect your gift.” 

“Of course,” Bard says, his voice thankfully steadier than the rest of him. He wonders what would happen if he had to stand up right now. In all likelihood he would fall straight into Thranduil’s lap. “I thank you again.” 

“You have not even seen it yet.” 

Bard shrugs. “I trust your taste in all things at least.” 

Thranduil laughs, finally letting go of Bard’s hand. Bard feels the loss keenly, his hand and indeed his entire body feeling much colder than it had before, but it helps to clear his head. Thranduil always seems to make him dizzy. 

The rest of the feast is spent in relative peace, Bard splitting his time between entertaining the two kings and making sure his children are behaving, which they are. Tilda and Bain are with the elves while Sigrid had chosen to spend the feast with the dwarves. Bard smiles to see them, as does Dain when he catches him at it. 

“Look at all your wee diplomats,” Dain says, slapping Bard hard on the back. It is getting late and they’ve all had a bit to drink. “That’s one thing you men do better than dwarves I’ll give you that.” 

“Diplomacy?” 

“No,” the dwarf sitting next to Dain says, leaning forward with a grin. “Making babies!” 

Bard snorts into his cup of wine, which is most unkingly of him but the vast majority of the hall is already too drunk to notice or care. Beside him, Thranduil scoffs and stands from the table suddenly, his annoyance clear on his face. A servant rushes forward to hold back his chair for him. “I believe I have had enough _fun_ for one evening,” he says, turning his nose to the air. Bard bites his lip to keep from smirking. 

“Very well.” Bard stands, hearing Dain reluctantly do that same. “I bid you goodnight, and I thank you for attending the festival.” 

Thranduil inclines his head, apparently too annoyed to say anything more, and leaves with several of his elves trailing behind him. “Now maybe we can actually have some fun.” Bard hears one of the dwarves say, not even bothering to be quiet. He supposes that they are right in a way, the tension between the two parties was too great for real revelry. But for Bard the party atmosphere seems that much dimmer without Thranduil's glowing presence beside him. 

It does not take him long to tire of it altogether. He makes his farewells to his guests and children, none of whom seem terribly disappointed to see him leave. It is rather hard to let go of one’s inhibitions in front of one’s father or king, and makes for the doors. An ef stops him halfway there, “Your majesty, my king bids me to tell you that he awaits you in his chambers, if you would consent to a visit.” 

Bard smiles, knowing that it would be too inappropriate to ask if his majesty would be wearing clothes this time, and simply nods. “Of course, thank you.” 

While the dwarves are all being housed in the great hall, the elves had been assigned elsewhere, in the best inns and houses Bard could muster. He climbs the stairs to Thranduil’s temporary residence, his heart refusing to cooperate with him and settle in his chest. The guard at the door lets him pass without a word, as do the two elves standing by the stairs. 

When Bard reaches the door Thranduil calls for him to come in without Bard even having to knock first. Bard rolls his eyes and pushes it open, almost disappointed to find that the elf is indeed fully clothed this time. Thranduil looks up briefly and then back down at the scroll he had been reading. “Ah, Bard. I was beginning to wonder of you had lost your way.” 

Bard scoffs. “In my own city? Please. You are just irritated with the dwarves.” 

The scroll drops to the table. “Perhaps.” The line between Thranduil’s eyebrows grows deeper. Bard wants to smooth it out with his thumb. 

“Perhaps?” Bard calls over his shoulder as he walks to the end table that holds all the wine and glasses. “It is your default state.” 

Thranduil huffs, but it is almost a laugh so Bard counts it as a victory and brings him a glass of wine. Thranduil doesn’t thank him, but he does point towards the bed with one long finger. “Your gift.” Bard turns, half surprised that there is actually a physical present for him, which of course Thranduil notices immediately. “Yes, a real present you insufferable charlatan.” 

Bard laughs to hear Thranduil say such words, too preoccupied with opening his present to respond. It is a beautiful saber, clearly of elvish make and very intricately designed. The handle is carved white stone, or possibly bone, decorated with a pattern of leaves. It is the most beautiful weapon Bard has ever seen. Bard is so stunned he forgets himself, forgets to be a king. 

“I gather it pleases you?” Thranduil calls to him from where he is lounging, a smirk crossing his face. Bard finds that he cannot be bothered with bantering, so taken he is with it. 

“Why?” 

Thranduil blinks. “I told you. It was my turn to give you a gift.” 

“I thank you.” 

“You are very welcome.” 

“Truly, it is wonderful.” Bard turns it, letting the blade catch the light. “I cannot imagine dealing death with such a thing.” 

“Better than what Dain gave you I take it.” 

Bard chuckles and waves a hand in the direction of the closet. “Yes, that was just the last part of Bilbo Baggin’s share of treasure. He just wanted to antagonize you. But this is...perfect.” 

He looks up, ready to concede that Thranduil may have indeed won their little game for he has no counter move for this, but Thranduil is still looking in the direction of the closet. A smirk winds its way across his face and Bard feels his heart sink, realizing what he had done. 

“Well I should-” 

“This is your room,” Thranduil says, finally turning back to look Bard in the eyes, triumphant. 

He considers denying it and immediately rejects the idea. “Yes, it is the best room we have.” 

“I am flattered,” Thranduil says, not sounding flattered at all. He sounds intrigued, and he is still staring, looking insufferably smug and altogether too tempting. “That is your bed.” 

Bard rolls his eyes. “Of course it is, but I am staying in-” 

“You should stay.”

Bard gives him a hard look that he is sure has no effect on the ancient being and reminds himself that he faced a dragon. “I do not think that would be appropriate.” 

“No, it would not be. Stay,” Thranduil repeats, his smile spreading across his face in a slow sustained slide. “I would not dream of putting you out so.” 

“It is of no consequence.” Even as Bard says it, his eyes drift to the bed, and Thranduil drifts over to him, catching him by the waist. His touch burns Bard through his clothes, making his blood rush faster. 

“I say it is.” Thranduil leans close, only a breath away. Bard can see every perfect inch of his face, unflawed and utterly tempting. “I say you should stay.” 

Bard tries to take a deep breath, but it comes out shaky. His eyes drop to Thranduil's mouth, and he is lost, reaching forward, pulling the elf to him by the shoulder. Thranduil leans forward in the same moment, tilting his head to receive Bard’s kiss, the gesture oddly submissive for him, though his arm is an iron band around Bard’s waist. He is not going anywhere. 

Thranduil opens his mouth first and Bard surges forward, his hand coming up to tangle in Thranduil's hair, gripping hard enough to hold him there as Bard invades his mouth. He slides their tongues together, the feeling so achingly familiar it nearly sends Bard tumbling to the ground. Instead he slides a knee between Thranduil’s legs, pressing against the hardness there, but Thranduil pulls away. 

“No. Slow.” 

Struck momentarily dumb with arousal Bard does not understand at first what he is saying. His head is cloudy, all the blood having rushed elsewhere. Bard closes his eyes, praying for the strength to have restraint. “If you say so.” 

“I do.” Thranduil smiles, his lips slightly puffy from Bard’s show of enthusiasm. He trails his fingers across Bard’s cheekbone. “I would take my time with you.”

Bard sighs, forcing himself to relax as Thranduil's other hand slides from his arm to his shoulder. He takes a step forward, restoring their closeness. “Very well, but I will persist in my efforts.”

“I would expect nothing less from you,” Thranduil murmurs, leaning forward again to accept Bard’s kiss. 

They kiss with less urgency than before, and with better results. Bard gentles his movements, caressing rather than taking. Thranduil swipes his tongue against his bottom lip and he sighs, opening his mouth. He feels drunk, dizzy. When they pull apart they do so silently and in the same moment. 

“Here.” Thranduil guides Bard’s hand to the tie at the shoulder of his robe. “Let us move to the bed.”

Bard shivers as he undoes the elf’s robes, tantalized by the revealed skin. Some of the urgency returns to his movements, but this time Thranduil mirrors it, pulling his tunic off quickly, the leggings soon following. Suddenly Thranduil is naked and perfect, and walking towards the bed. He settles himself onto the sheet and leans back, displaying himself. Bard stares after him, still mostly clothed. 

Thranduil is perfection personified. 

“Well? Are you not joining me or not?” Thranduil asks, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“In time,” Bard hums, still staring. “You’re beautiful, you should be looked at.” 

Thranduil blinks, and then reddens, something Bard had never seen before. The sight is too much for Bard and he stalks forward, shedding layers as he goes. Thranduil watches avidly, his eyes bright and sharply focused on his form as Bard reveals himself. He holds out his hands but Bard stops at the end of the bed and reaches forward to drag Thranduil down to him by the hips, stopping when he gets him where he wants him, laying with his knees bent and feet hanging over the end of the bed. Thranduil makes an annoyed noise. 

“What do you think you are-” Thranduil complains, sitting up, but cuts himself off with a gasp as Bard drops to his knees and takes his cock into his mouth. 

Thranduil’s hands scramble for purchase on the sheets as Bard draws his lips down his length, giving a full body shudder when he reaches the base and begins to apply his tongue to the underside. Bard moves back up, sacrificing depth for freedom of movement, sucking on the sensitive tip. 

Thranduil sucks in a sharp breath. “It- it has been long since-” His arms start to shake with the effort of holding himself up so he lets himself drop back to the bed. Bard hums with pleasure, feeling more than a little self-satisfied, but maintains his focus. It had been a long time for him as well. 

“Stop.” 

Bard does so immediately, but leaves his hands splayed on Thranduil’s thighs, feeling the powerful muscles there bunch and relax with the strain of keeping still. “Close?”

“Hardly,” Thranduil replies, though his eyes drift shut and his chest heaves. It is clearly a lie, just a part of their game. 

“I am ever at your command, Majesty,” Bard teases, running his fingertips lightly across his skin. Thranduil looks wrecked, a far cry from the immaculate creature Bard was used to seeing. 

Thranduil scoffs breathily, his haughty demeanor somewhat ruined by his current state. His flush extends all the way down to his chest. “Get undressed and come here.” 

Too gone to argue or even banter, Bard strips off the rest of his clothes and climbs on the bed in seconds, laying himself down next to the other king, who lets himself relax against the bed as Bard wraps an arm around his waist. 

“Is this slow enough for you?” Bard asks, quietly. 

“No,” Thranduil whispers, his hair spread out behind him like a holo. He leans forward. “Never.” 

Bard kisses him again, hard enough to take his breath away. They grapple with each other's bodies for several minutes, hands sliding, gripping. One moment Bard finds himself looming over the other king and the next he is pinned. They break away for breath and Bard shifts his attention to Thranduil's neck. Bard bites down and Thranduil gasps. He looks up and is intrigued to see surprise in the elf’s now wide-eyed gaze, as well as curiosity.

Bard cannot help but smirk. “Elves don’t mix a little pain with their pleasure?” 

“Not usually,” Thranduil says, panting.

“Would you like to now?” Bard asks, putting his lips back to Thranduil’s neck, feeling his pulse there, fluttering like a bird. He bites down again, and Thranduil moans. 

“I don’t-” Thranduil groans, winding a hand through Bard’s short hair as he rakes his teeth along his neck. “I do not see why not.” 

Bard hums in agreement, too focused on his task to properly respond, but he grips Thranduil’s hips tightly. Being with him in this way is intoxicating, making it easy to set all of his shame and worries aside. The thought of touching the untouchable elvenking in any unprofessional manner, despite having already done it several times, always struck a cord of self consciousness within Bard. He had not been sure he could expect himself to perform with any skill. No longer. 

Bard grips Thranduil even harder, grounding himself in the solidness of the other’s bones and flesh. Thranduil growls, the sound far from human and rolls on top of him, pinning Bard to the bed with his not inconsiderable weight. “Do you seek to tease me?” Thranduil asks, his tone low and dangerous even while his eyes dance with light. 

Thinking to answer, Bard opens his mouth but closes it again in a groan when Thranduil grinds down on him, skin on skin. Thranduil smirks. “I did not quite catch that.” 

“You-” Bard pauses to catch his breath, distracted by the way Thranduil tilts his head. There are marks on his neck. “You insufferable-” 

Thranduil kisses him again, holding him down by the hips. Bard hooks a leg around the back of his thigh for leverage and presses upwards, thrusting against him. Thranduil break away with a gasp and presses his face to Bard’s neck, his grip loosening. Grinning, Bard wraps his free arm around his waist and flips them, laying the elven king on his back below him. Thranduil lets out a shaky breath, staring up at Bard with wide eyes. His hands drift up to grasp Bard’s shoulders, but he makes no move to push him off. Bard grins and wraps his hand around both of them, thrusting. They don’t have the tools or the restraint for anything else. 

From then the only sounds are their harsh breaths, and the sounds of their bodies. They keep their eyes open, Thranduil having moved his hand from Bard’s shoulder to the back of his head, keeping him close. Moment to moment something shifts and Bard lets out a strangled gasp, Thranduil following soon after, wrapping his arms around the man when he collapses onto him, boneless. 

“Am I crushing you?” Bard whispers, because it is polite. 

Thranduil chuckles tiredly, trailing his fingers through Bard’s hair. “You do not weigh enough.” 

Bard huffs and hauls himself up with a great deal of effort, ignoring Thranduil’s half hearted attempts to hold him there. He goes to the desk to retrieve the water bowl and cloth, taking a moment to admire his present once again before returning. Thranduil watches him with half-lidded eyes as Bard cleans them up. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, much more quietly than usual. All of his hard edges seem to have smoothed out leaving him looking young and soft. 

“Of course,” Bard replies, letting his fingers absently drift through Thranduil's liquid wave of hair when he is done, admiring the perfection of it. 

Thranduil reaches over and tugs Bard back down, arranging him to lie in front with Thranduil's arm wrapped around his waist. “I thought for a moment you were leaving.” 

“No,” Bard says, leaning back against his solid weight. “After all it is my bed.” 

Thranduil's silence is loud, his fingers tense against Bard’s bare skin. 

Bard smiles, wrapping his fingers around Thranduil’s and squeezing. “Besides, as my mentor I am sure you have much left to teach me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr if you want :)  
> http://paradiamond.tumblr.com/


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